Durin the Seventh and Last
by EvilFuzzy9
Summary: A golden age at the end of time. [poem]


**Durin the Seventh and Last**

A _Lord of the Rings_ poem

By

EvilFuzzy9

* * *

In Erebor, Mountain the Lonely, lived there a brave and young dwarf;  
A hardy and doughty and valiant sort, eager to prove all his skill and his worth.  
With his father and kin, and axe in his hand, out set he on perilous quest,  
For to win back their halls, hallowed and old, and all of their enemies best.  
To Mountains the Misty went they; southward and westward went they,  
From Erebor, Lone Mountain went they, armed for long debt to repay.  
To Moria, to Moria; they went in strength to Moria,  
To cleanse the halls and free the tombs and cast out Orkish horde-ia.  
Our hero went, the young dwarf went, the Last went off to war-ia.

The pit long black, forgotten and feared; the Golden Wood all gray,  
In Dimrill Dale, twixt dark and gloom, the hounds began to bay;  
"Huff, we smell! Hark, we hear! Orkish host is gathered near!  
Bring up your arms, mattock and axe: hence comes a hatred and fear!"  
Madness took steed, pony and ox, in terror fled they from the dale,  
To brink of the wood, Lorien Gray, from whence the Elves long ago sailed;  
Orcs tread not those paths, still peril they held, for all those who did serve the Dark,  
But safe they were not, for dwarves or their beasts, and of their packs was seen no mark.  
The Dwarves in fear quailed, hearts would have failed, if not to our hero had harkened.

Our hero was young, our hero was brave, our hero did not fear the foe:  
Our hero was strong, our hero was wise, in Mirrormere saw he below  
The visage of Durin, crowned by the stars, of divine right to rule was his sign,  
For no mortal but he had ever been seen in Mirrormere's waters sublime.  
First since the fall, since the fire and shadow had swallowed their forefathers' halls;  
Durin the Seventh was he, forsooth! The Last before all dwarves would fall.  
And new heart took he, and all of his kin, for Durin had all of their trust.  
If he was their king, Durin reborn, then this battle could only be just,  
So with great shouts they rose, ready for war. Ready to do what they must.

"_Baruk khazâd!_" they hollered and roared, "The Dwarves with their axes are here!  
This is our home, our mansion of old! Before her feet know we no fear!  
_Baruk khazâd!_ Harken, ye orcs, to the thunder of our voices crying!  
_Khazâd ai-mênu! _To reclaim our halls! Too long have our fathers been lying  
Untended, forgotten, in halls long defiled, at mercy of goblin and fiend!"  
Their feet they did stamp, their shields did rattle, their voices did echo most keen,  
Betwixt the arms of Azanulbizar, and Lorien Gray far below,  
Like hammering stroke, and trumpeting song, and red hot iron forge bellow  
They taunted and boasted, believing in haste, that they had quite daunted their foe.

But Durin knew better, he guessed at the truth, and ordered his kin to stand silent;  
At once they heard it, when their voices fell soft: a hoarse shout which through the air rent!  
"Look at those dwarves, those sad hairy fools. They think all our work to despoil!  
But that is their folly, it cannot be done. To nothing will come all their toil.  
Pity the fools, into the pit! Come up from the dark! Throw them all down!  
Through fire, and torment, and long anguish deep, to dark heart of our Goblin Town!"  
And out from the gates, the shattered East Door, there poured a vast, endless throng  
Of goblins and trolls, half-orcs and wargs, crying in fell Mordor song:  
"Kill the dwarves dead, kill them all dead! We've suffered their presence too long!"

Durin marshalled his kin, brandished his axe, urged them to hold firm their ground,  
For the goblin horde great was yet untamed and wild, senselessly swirling around,  
Roaring and howling and charging at will, no leader or purpose to guide them;  
So Durin implored and commanded his troops, to hold fast the slope and the goblin host hem  
So the orcs could not flee and escape from the dale, or come upon them from behind.  
With mattock and shield, short sword and axe, in file and rank they did line,  
Dwarf after dwarf, a terrible sight, clad all in iron and steel;  
And firm they did hold, standing their ground, although their foe did turn and wheel,  
For Durin did lead them, Durin their king; the foe they would quick bring to heel.

Slaughter and rout, bloodshed and flame, battle was joined in the dale;  
Like thunder and whirlwind, tumbling rock all, they fell on the foe as a hail  
Of fury and wrath, stone cast and dart, arrows which flew through the air.  
Dark-a-ling flow, glittering steel, as swift as the red leaping hare  
Was the charge of the mass, the great goblin horde; Second Battle of Azanulbizar,  
Where many were slain, few of them dwarf, and no orc lived long to be scarred.  
The charge Durin led, steady and slow, up the long sloped mountain-foot,  
To Moria east-gate, in o'er the reek, of goblins slain at the world's root  
Into the dark, into their halls, where the orcs they would in their graves put.

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm, in dwarven halls below the earth,  
The battle long fought, where many did die, and many more did prove their worth,  
As warriors brave, champions strong, dwarven-kin true and sure-hearted,  
Against unending ranks, numbers past count, the end of their tale now started.  
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm, in dwarven halls deep underground  
They battled the foe, and slaughtered the orcs, and all the countryside round  
Did hear the tale, the songs and the lore, of Durin the Seventh and Last;  
Did know the truth, the glorious feat, of Longbeards reclaiming their past,  
And all did sing praises, long past his death, of Durin the Seventh and Last.

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm, a golden age last dwarves did know:  
Ere strength did fail, was one last reign, of Durin the Deathless below  
Zirakzigil, Bundushathûr, Baranzibar the tall;  
O'er Moria, o'er Khazad-dûm, home of Longbeard's hall  
Since Durin the First did behold his crown in waters of Kheled-zâram  
And declared this his home, his royalty's realm, for as long as the stars shone upon  
Mirrormere dark, and Mirrormere cold, Mirrormere where lay the sign of his right  
To rule o'er the dwarves, as Durin their king, who ended the underground night  
With fire of forge, and fire of hearth, and fire of glinting torch light.

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm, no music more is there,  
Nor ore is mined, nor halls are lit, nor wrought are things of metal fair:  
The dwarves are gone, the dwarves have gone, the dwarves are all gone from this world.  
No work of diamond, or ruby or sapphire, or em'rald or mother of pearl  
Is made now as fair, as once there was made, in deep places under the ground,  
Where forges did bellow, and harpers did play, and hammers a-ringing did sound.  
From Moria, from Khazad-dûm, comes nothing but rumor of death and of ruin;  
The dwarves are gone, the dwarves lie dead, no longer is lit Khazad-dûm.  
The dwarves are gone, they all lie dead, in Moria their tomb.

* * *

A/N: A poem I finished a while ago and then just left lying unposted for weeks. It's a bit rough in places, and I'm not entirely sure I had any real idea of what I was trying to do with it, but it has some parts I really like.

**Updated:** 7-21-14

**TTFN and R&R!**

– — ❤


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